Atrophy
by XO'MagickMoon'OX
Summary: Atrophy [noun]: a wasting away, deterioration, or diminution. [implied RikuxSora] [one shot]


**H**i everybody

**Here's another story coming your way via the MagickMoon express. I started this over the summer, and kind of just let it go, and then as I was sifting through all of my unfinished stories, I came across it and decided to finish it. So the ending might be a little off; it seems off to me, but ah well. Hopefully you'll enjoy! **

**Before I continue, I want to take this opportunity to tell everyone that I will be dropping off of the face of the Internet world for a while. **_I'm leaving for Japan on Sunday_**, and I won't be coming back until the fifteenth (a day before my birthday! whoo! sweet sixteen! xD) Anyway. So yes, no updates, no reviews, no anything for an entire week and half.**

**And now, without further ado, I give you: Riku angst galore! Drown in the angst!**

And this is set during the first game, after Malifecent had to be all evil and bring Riku to the Dark Side!**  
**

Inspired by Evanescence and their forever amazing selves.

xxx

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I hate the mirror in my room. I hate what I see in it. I hate my hair, I hate my eyes, I hate my face, I hate my body (when did I get so ugly?) Was I always so _unattractive_, so hideous, so horrid, so revolting? I think I remember, one time 

_Riku, you're so pretty_

someone telling me that I was good-looking. I think my hair used to be made of moonlight, and not cobwebs. I think my eyes used to look like the ocean and not dusty, dull-edged aquamarines (sometimes I try to shine them to see if there's anything underneath the grime; there never is). I think my face used to be attractive, not gaunt and corpse-like (my skin used to be like porcelain; now it's made of paper). I think my body used to be desirable, functioning, even, and reliable, not frail and emaciated and

ugly.

I hate the mirror in my room. I think I broke it. Was that what that sound was? That _shattering? _It sounded like screaming. Maybe that was me screaming. Maybe it was my reflection, screaming as it was splintered into thousands of crystalline fragments. It felt good, to break the mirror. To destroy my reflection. It felt good to watch my doppelganger explode into glittering, glistening, painted shards (painted in blood). Maybe it was my blood. Do I have blood? Funny, it feels like my (ugly) body is always cold, and my heart doesn't really seem to want to beat anymore.

Do I have a heart?

I think I used to be in love. Now it seems less like love and more like an obsession. I have an unhealthy obsession. Maybe that's why I'm so haggard, because I'm unhealthy. So that makes it your fault, doesn't it? Because you're my obsession. Ergo, it's your fault that I'm like this. It feels good to blame someone else. Maybe I should do it more often.

I think too much.

What else is there to do? Nothing, except think. Cogitate. Contemplate. Muse. Ponder. Ruminate. Oh, and dream. I do that too. I don't know why; they're always the same. There's always blue in my dreams. Blue, and chestnut, and sun-kissed gold. It's always pretty. I always feel so out of place. In my own dreams! I would laugh if I could remember how to. So I settle for a grin. Not a smile, but a grin. A smirk. It looks ugly on my thin, pale lips. I can see it in the mirror fragment glaring up at me from my floor. I step on it, and break the fragment into a million more.

I need to do something about this obsession.

It's really getting bad. I dream about you, I think about you, I fantasize about you. Even though it's always about you, my fantasies are never the same. I think the monotony would drive me insane (oh wait, never mind, it's too late for that). Sometimes, you're willing. More than willing; you beg, you plead, you whimper. I'm addicted to your voice. Sometimes, you resist. It just makes it all the more fun when you submit. Sometimes, you make me surrender, and I'm the one begging and pleading. Sometimes—

_Hey, Riku, d'ya wanna__ play?_

I wish I could remember what your voice sounds like. I think I'm starting to forget. I catch glimmers of your face, snatches of your voice, hints of your smell (like vanilla and sea water). They're always ephemeral, transient, and I'm left wanting more. Craving more. I'd give anything to have you again. To see you again, to touch you again.

I want you to save me.

Is it too late? I think it is. I think it's too late to save me. I'm too far gone.

Something's moving…something… I think the door's opening. Oh, right, there's a door. Why does it always seem like there isn't? Why does it always seem like I'm trapped here? Probably because I am. 

"Boy, what are you doing?"

She always calls me that. _Boy_. As if I don't have a name. That probably doesn't matter anymore, though, as I don't really even remember my name. I can remember the way it looks written in the sand (you used to write it all the time), I can remember the way it sounded when you used to say it, but I just can't make it pass through my thoughts, leave the closed harbor of my (thin, pale) lips. I'm pretty sure it starts with an R. I think it means _land_, or something to that extent. Your name means _sky_. So beautiful. It suits you. Or, it did, last I checked. I can't really testify to the truth of that statement now. I can't testify to the truth of anything. I can't discern between truth and pretense anymore. Everything just sort of blends together.

"Are you still thinking about him?"

I don't respond. My throat feels tight and dry, my mouth parched. I don't think I've spoken in a while. I don't think she expects me to speak now, either. She just taunts me with questions, goading me into replying, trying to wretch words from my stitched-together lips. It doesn't matter anymore.

I sit here, in this room that she gave to me, stewing in this miserable nonexistence that I imposed upon myself. The mirror is broken on the floor. And my last memory of you is in…someplace. Someplace… a place…a transient place, somewhere where people are always coming and going, never staying. Just like everything else in this pathetic, ragged, torn, raped and beaten and abused thing called life. Everything's been swallowed by darkness. Everything. And what about you?

Will I ever see you again…?

Sora…?

Right. That's your name. Sora. I'll be due to forget it again in five,

_We'll be_

….four….

_best friends_

…three…

_forever _

..two..

_right, Riku?_

one.

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xxx

**So? Comments? Criticisms? Feedback is always appreciated! **

xxx


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